FRED CORLEONE: A musical?

JOHNNY FONTANE: That’s right. Top songs. How’d you hear that?

FRED CORLEONE: I know half of the songwriting team a little. Listen, we gotta pay some bills.

JOHNNY FONTANE: You’re not paying your bills?

FRED CORLEONE: I meant going to commercial, as you know.

JOHNNY FONTANE: We’ll be right back.

FRED CORLEONE: Whose show is this, huh?

JOHNNY FONTANE: So you say it. How’d a bum like you get a television show in the first place, not to mention a chick like Deanna Dunn?

FRED CORLEONE: See what I mean, everybody? You’re a national treasure! We’ll be right back.

From the penthouse window of the Château Marmont, Fredo Corleone stood alone in the dark and looked down at the Sunset Strip, waiting for his wife to come home. This place cost Fredo more each week than what his pop had paid for that whole mall of houses back on Long Island, but it was probably worth it. He could stay here without fans bugging Deanna or bodyguards breathing down his neck. He looked at his watch. Almost two. They’d had dinner reservations at eleven. Shooting usually finished around nine, though he’d been in three movies himself (all bit parts) and knew that you could never tell. Deanna hadn’t been in a hit for five years-which in Hollywood time might as well have been five hundred. She’d landed this part after several younger actresses had passed, and every day she came back from shooting talking about what a dog the movie was going to be, what a horrible actor her pretty-boy costar was.

Even as Fredo turned away from the window and toward the phone, he told himself he wasn’t going to dial it, he was just going to test himself. He dialed. The switchboard put him through to Bungalow 3. The deep, sleepy voice that answered belonged to Wally Morgan, half of one of the most in-demand songwriting teams in the business. He’d been in the navy, raced motorcycles, liked to hunt: no one you’d have figured for a fairy. Fredo was learning that you can’t go by that. Guy paints a room in his house, it doesn’t make him a painter. Just a guy who painted a room is all. Also, this was Hollywood. Things were different here. Fontane called fags buttfuckers, right to their face, but he always had plenty of them at his parties to keep conversation with the ladies moving when he and the boys were talking football or chucking M-80s into the ravine behind his house. And where was Fredo when this was happening? With the boys, maligning quarterbacks and pissing off the neighbors. So he was certainly no fag.

Fredo cleared his voice and asked if it would be okay if he swung by for a drink.

“Swung by?” Morgan chuckled. “Nice euphemism, tiger. But sure. I’ll make some martinis. Be a sport and bring a few of our green friends, too, mmkay?”

Euphemism. Our green friends. Tiger. It was hard for Fredo to believe he had anything to do with anyone who talked like that. He grabbed his bathing suit and a bottle of pills and left. The trunks were for later, afterward, a swim to clear his head.

By the time he finally did get to the pool, it was four in the morning and there was a couple fucking in the deep end. No lights. Fredo changed in the bathhouse, hoping that while he did they’d finish, but when he opened the door they were still there. He hadn’t taken a shower back in Bungalow 3. He had to do something before he went back to the penthouse, to clean up, just in case. The couple had stayed more or less in the same place-against the wall, next to a ladder-and seemed to be in no hurry. What did Fredo care? He jumped into the shallow end and swam back and forth a few times. He hadn’t eaten anything, but the pills had given him all the energy in the world. As he was gathering up his clothes, he glanced over at the couple, still going at it in the deep end. That was when he realized that the woman was his wife.

“Dee Dee?”

She laughed. The man laughed, too. The man was her costar, Matt Marshall. “Be right with you,” Deanna called. “Little busy right now.”

Fredo put his head down and strode to the elevator. In the penthouse, he strapped on the gun belt he’d stolen from the set of Apache Creek (his second movie; he’d played an Indian) and two loaded Colt Peacemakers. Despite the pills, he felt an abiding calm. Revenge was justified, and in a few moments he’d have it.

But when he got back to the pool, they were gone.

The next thing Fredo knew, he was standing in the garage of the Château Marmont, leveling a pistol at the Regal Turquoise 1958 Corvette he’d bought Deanna for their first anniversary. He heard his heart beating. He took several deep breaths, keeping his arm steady, squeezing but not quite pulling the trigger. They’d gone to Flint together to pick up the car. Their publicist had gotten the photos of that smiling moment into newspapers and magazines across the world-good ink for all involved.

Fredo opened fire: into the rear window, the left rear tire, two in the driver’s door, one through the driver’s window and out the passenger’s, one in the windshield. It felt good to kill a car. Glass shattered, and tires and upholstery exploded. The echoes of metal on metal and the aftershock tinkling of who knew what.

He holstered the first Colt, opened the Corvette’s hood, and took out the other. The hotel manager and several of his people showed up, but they knew Fredo and knew that this was Deanna Dunn’s car. They’d seen many more famous people engaging in stranger and more clearly criminal behavior. In an even voice the manager asked if there was anything he could do.

“Nope.” Fredo fired a slug into the four-barrel carburetor. “Got it covered, thanks.”

The next one provoked a small explosion and a puff of white smoke. The first gawkers were showing up now.

“It’s rather late, Mr. Corleone. As you can see, several of the other guests-”

He put another bullet in the engine block.

“-have unfortunately been disturbed.”

Two more into the passenger side. His final bullet missed the car.

Behind him, a lady screamed and shouted shrill nonsense in what might have been French. When Fredo turned around, there was Matt Marshall-shirtless, barefoot, and in chinos, charging toward him, his blandly handsome face contorted in rage.

Fredo drew the other gun, too, and pointed them both at Marshall-who either was nuts or knew Fredo was out of bullets, because he kept coming. Fredo had never experienced a moment of such clarity. He stood his ground. Marshall lunged toward him, and Fredo dodged him, deftly as a matador. Marshall hit the pavement. He rose, bloodied, and charged again, head stupidly down. Fredo wanted to laugh but instead threw a roundhouse pistol-whip haymaker. It made a sound like dropping a roast from a tall building. Marshall crumpled.

As one-except for the shrieking French lady-the crowd that had gathered said, “Ooh.”

Fredo holstered the guns. “Self-defense,” he said, “pure and simple.”

It was Hagen who came to bail him out.

“You made good time,” Fredo said as they walked out of the police station. “You fly?”

“Only in a manner of speaking. Jesus, Fredo. I’m not sure anyone in that hotel ever managed to get themselves arrested.”

“Stray bullets,” he said. “It could happen to anyone. I feel rotten about that dog, though.”

The French lady was a deposed countess, out walking her toy poodle. One of the bullets had blown all but a few stringy remnants of its head off. The other problematic shot was one that had somehow passed through the Corvette and torn up the grille of the car behind it, a white DeSoto Adventurer, the pace car for the 1957 Indy 500. The winner of the race had made a mint selling it to Marshall, best known to moviegoers as the cocky gearhead with a heart of gold in Checkered Past, Checkered Flag. That asshole wasn’t fighting for Deanna or on her behalf. What set him off had been the acrid smoke coming from his precious car.